


Home for Christmas

by orphan_account



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Prostitution, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt's car breaks down on the way to NYC for Christmas. He can't afford the repairs, but small-town mechanic Burt Hummel is willing to negotiate the payment method.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Started this in response to the proliferation of sickly-sweet holiday fics that always spring up this time of year. Yet somehow managed to give it a happy ending, whoops. A million thanks to jemima_oxford, my kink soulmate, for the generous beta.

Christmas Eve and the street outside is quiet and dark, making for perfect mirror images of the lit interior of Hummel Tires & Lube in the garage door windows. Kurt is distracted by his own reflection as he paces behind his poor truck, levitating on the car lift. His hair still looks good, but the fluorescents are doing nothing to enhance his winter complexion. 

“Just, thank goodness you were still here,” he says again to the grubby man in coveralls under his truck.

The man grunts from beneath his uplifted arms.

He’d been markedly un-thrilled when Kurt had hopped out of the tow-truck and tap-tap-tapped on his window just as he was about to turn the CLOSED sign on the garage door. That said, he’d still squinted a long look up and down Kurt’s completely inadequate outerwear and then unlocked the door.

“So, uh, how bad is it? Can I get back out on the road tonight?”

The man fiddles a bit more and then sighs and half-tosses a socket wrench onto the rolling cabinet beside him. He pushes his hat up a little and scratches his bald head before tugging it back down. 

“Well, kid, you’ve managed to flood two of your valves and you’re going to need a new seal on your pressure injector.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yep.”

“I’m not so great with a stick,” Kurt admits. 

“You don’t say.” 

“So, does that make it undrivable?”

“If you can get where you’re going without using your first three gears and you’re okay with your engine potentially igniting, sure, be on your way.” 

Kurt groans and almost sits on a stack of dirty tires. “That sounds really, really bad,” he sighs. “Can you still fix it? Can you, I don’t know, unflood it?”

The man looks like he might consider the possibility of maybe cracking a teeny-tiny smile.

“Yeah, I’ve got the de-flooder all spooled up and ready to go,” he replies and it takes Kurt a couple of blinks to realise he’s being sarcastic.

Kurt finally asks the only important question. “So...how much is this going to set me back?”

The man looks up to the ceiling of the shop and flicks his fingers like he’s using them to count. His hands are large. “Parts, labor, not including overtime or holiday pay, you’re looking at about eight-hundred to hit the road tonight.” 

Kurt sits on the tires.

“Eight...hundred...I can’t, I don’t...” He definitely doesn’t have that kind of money. Not with Christmas, and all the gas, and that D2 sweater he wasn’t _not_ going to buy...

“Look, I can get you to a motel, or you can hole up here if you’ve got a ride, but that’s the deal. I don’t think you’re going to get a better one, since it also includes my Christmas Eve discount,” the man says, not unkindly. 

If he’s a father, he’s probably the tough-love kind, the kind who believes there is a lesson to be learned from every challenge. It doesn’t make the situation any less dire. Kurt needs to get back to New York by Christmas morning. He has a trunk full of presents and had stocked up on coffee and baby carrot sticks, planning to drive all night. Make it to the city in time for cinnamon pancakes, mimosas and a good long nap. He _needs_ to get to New York.

“Okay. Okay. I um, can get you the money, but just not right away. Do you have some kind of payment plan option? Is there a manager I can speak to?”

The man gestures around the small-town garage exaggeratedly and then taps the stitched name on his chest. _Burt Hummel_. Of Hummel Tires  & Lube.

“Gee, our accounts payable team is off for the holidays and you’re talking to the only manager here.”

Kurt looks around desperately, like a solution is going to jump out from behind a rack of motor oil. “I...I just..I need to...”

“Hey, hey kid, take it easy,” the man, Burt, has Kurt’s shoulder in one of his big hands, waving the other in Kurt’s face to get his attention. Apparently he’s hyperventilating. “Easy now. Don’t panic. Now, look. Do you have a credit card?”

“Maxed,” Kurt moans. 

Burt snorts and gives him an up-and-down. “Of course it is. Alright, you got anyone you can call? Someone who can lend you the money?” 

Kurt shakes his head. “I...no, not tonight. I, I can get you the money, just not tonight. But I’m good for it, really. I...you can trust me, I’ll pay you back, I swear,” he whispers, he pleads shamelessly.

Burt looks at him for a long time, squints his light eyes under the brim of his cap. He doesn’t look mad, just worried. Like he’s worried for Kurt.

Kurt blinks and a tear drops down, beside his nose, hits his mouth with a salty sting. He just needs to get home.

Burt catches the next tear, and he pulls away, straightening up, looking at the gleam of wetness on the pad of his thumb. Then he clears his throat and walks a couple of steps to the grungy counter, grabbing a box of tissues and holding them out to Kurt. Kurt takes a couple, blotting his eyes with a sniff. Maybe he could catch a bus, or get a ride to the nearest train station...he’s getting home tonight, no matter what.

A lone car drives by outside, cutting through the quiet of the garage. Burt looks up at the noise, and then back down at Kurt. 

“How much you got on you?” he asks.

Kurt shrugs. “Like, two hundred dollars. Three hundred if I can get to an ATM.” He brightens at Burt’s resigned face. “I just need maybe fifty dollars for gas, but you can have what I’ve got! Right now, and then I’ll transfer you the rest on like, the 26th. Well, most of the rest.” He fumbles for his wallet. “Here, take the cash I have, and here is some collateral too. My Sephora card, and my Starbucks card, there are like, forty-five stars on here! That’s a lot of muffins! And my passport, and my license-”

“Whoa, whoa, kid. Stop. You’ll actually need those.” Burt puts a big hand over his. His fingers are warm, and they push down, putting the wallet into Kurt’s lap. His big thumb brushes around the curve of Kurt’s wrist. “Just. Take it easy.”

“I...okay.” Kurt blinks. For being so close, Burt doesn’t smell that bad. Like, canvas and metal and hardy soap. “But, you’ll do it? You’ll fix it tonight? Let me pay you back when I can?”

Burt’s other hand closes around his thigh, just above his knee. Almost wraps completely around the top. Kurt’s leg feels small underneath it. He draws in a breath. 

“Yeah, I’ll fix it. Tonight,” Burt rumbles. His eyes keep flicking from his own hand to Kurt’s face. Watching, watching. “But...”

“But what?” Kurt breathes. 

“But maybe I’m not so sure I’ll ever see that money.” Burt’s eyes stay hard on his.

“No! Really, you will! I promi-”

“Shhh. That’s enough.” The hand squeezes, moves a little further up his thigh. “How about this. How about we go into the back room for a little while, you and me, and we’ll call it even.”

“Oh.” 

A strike of something, something dirty and forbidden, skitters across Kurt’s anxiety. He’s not a kid anymore. Doesn’t have to act coy. He knows what Burt wants. His mouth, probably.

“All of it?” he whispers. “You’ll fix my car, tonight, for free?”

“Mmmhmm,” Burt confirms, just as quietly. He palms Kurt’s other thigh too. “Well, not for _free_. It’ll cost you. Just not money.”

Eight-hundred dollars, scrounged up and borrowed from god knows where. Living off of office coffee and canned tuna. No theatre, no wine bars, no _cabs_. He’d be taking the train _everywhere_. 

Or. 

Or ten minutes of sucking cock. Wham, bam, and he’s back out on the road, home for Christmas. Another naughty pulse through his stomach. Eight-hundred dollars for less than an hour. About the rate charged by the highest-paid escorts in New York. Not bad, really.

Kurt figures that this is the time to work out the particulars. If Burt’s wandering fingers are any indication, he now has some leverage in this negotiation.

Burt just keeps watching him carefully as Kurt licks his lips. “One blowjob,” he bids.

Burt finally cracks a closed-mouthed smirk. He uses the same thumb that he used to wipe Kurt’s tear to casually reach up and pull on Kurt’s bottom lip. Like he’s testing the bounce of it.

“I bet you suck cock just as neat as can be, don’t you, kid?”

“I guess you’ll find out.” 

He doesn’t. He’s sloppy and thorough and pushy and kind of loves it. But...he’s monogamous to a masochistic degree. He’s usually friends with, then dates, then commits to the cocks he sucks. He’s certainly never sold the service, whether it be for a nice dinner and a date or to get his car fixed.

“Hmmm,” Burt hums without commitment. The hand still on Kurt’s leg starts migrating up, up, up, over his hip, under the fall of his peacoat, coming to rest on the top of his ass. 

Burt’s eyes are heavy-lidded. “Tempting. But I think it’s going to cost you a little more than that.” 

There is no misunderstanding the gentle squeeze Burt gives.

“You want to fuck me?” Kurt breathes. 

Burt tsks at him. “Language.”

Kurt scowls. “Really?”

Burt concedes the ridiculousness of his admonishment with a small shrug and a smirk. “Whatever you want to call it. Yeah. That’s the price.”

It feels like...more, a _lot_ more to give. He’d have so much less control over the situation. But. Also less work. 

“I...do you have condoms?” 

“‘Course.”

Burt is up, locking the door, and throwing off the bank of overhead lights. Then he’s hustling Kurt down a small hallway, past a reception area, and into a comparatively clean office. There’s a desk and a worn leather couch and framed black and white photos on the wall of old, round-edged trucks.

Kurt stands in the middle of the room and slowly takes off his jacket while Burt rustles around in one of the desk drawers. It doesn’t sink in, doesn’t feel like he’s about to get fucked by a car mechanic in small-town Ohio, until Burt comes back around the desk with a plastic-wrapped condom and a small bottle of lube in his hand.

“Here, like this,” Burt tells him with authority, like he knows that Kurt is starting to overthink it, like he knows that Kurt needs Burt to take his wrists, place his hands on the desk.

Burt starts working his belt off, not rough, but not gentle, either. Not like a lover, but like a man who just purchased ass and is efficiently opening the packaging. Kurt looks down, at the shadow of his head and shoulders over the blotter. He can read the upsidedown order form in the stack of papers between his palms. It’s for 200 air filters. 

“Wait,” Kurt huffs.

Burt’s hands still immediately. Kurt can feel his warmth all up the back of his legs, the overwhelming closeness of an unfamiliar body. 

Burt rights him by his lovehandles, looks him in the eye. “You looking to go with the original deal, kid?” he asks carefully. 

"I..." No, he can't. He can't pay this man, not really. Eight hundred dollars; in Kurt's world that's both a scarf and three months of feeding himself. One couture glove or his half of the rent. A modest liquor bill for a client dinner or his January credit card bill. 

The realization that this is it, that he has no choice but to prostitute himself to get home for Christmas, settles hot and deliciously shameful in his pelvis.

"No," he whispers. Clears his throat. "I'm good. I'm fine. Let's do this."

Burt just looks at him for a few moments more, like he's trying to gauge Kurt's honesty. It's mildly annoying, that he would care so much about Kurt's consent and comfort when the man suggested Kurt bend over for him in the first place. Like he has the right to care about Kurt. That feels more invasive than anything.

"Do it," Kurt tells him again. 

The man, Burt, raises an eyebrow. His eyes are very blue. Very _knowing_. Then he yanks Kurt closer by the ends of his belt.

Kurt catches himself on Burt’s chest, the canvas rough under his hands. Looks down, watches Burt competently unbutton his Etro jeans, peel the fly open and hook his thumbs in Kurt’s briefs, yanking everything down.

His cock pops up, swollen and a little travel worn from being locked in his tight jeans. The air hitting his groin is yet another splash of cold realization. He undresses slowly with his lovers, sweet and warm, kisses and softly-lit bedrooms. And here is Burt, his face hardly changing, just a little more speculative, turning Kurt by his exposed hips, pushing his pants down a little further, thumb warm and business-like when it spreads his ass cheek to the side.

Kurt’s breath comes out of him in a pant he didn’t know he was holding in and he braces himself on the desk again. It feels a little like a medical exam, Burt holding his asscheeks apart, dry fingers brushing over his asshole. All feel and no visual confirmation of what’s happening, sparks and shocks of touch in the blindness.

He turns his head, looks around his straining shoulder when Burt’s hands leave him, just in time to see Burt pull the zipper on his overalls, white t-shirt underneath, plaid boxer shorts. He gropes into the slit and pulls out his dick, more than half-erect, dark and thick.

“Oh, jeez,” Kurt can’t help but whisper. That he’d be taking a gorilla-sized cock was never discussed in the negotiations. Burt ignores him, fishes into his underwear again, and pulls out his balls too, furred and hanging huge in the V of his coveralls.

His own balls rise up, anxious and flexing, god, he’s really going to earn his pay on this one. 

Burt takes his own dick in his hand, rubs the underside and tip of it on Kurt’s right asscheek. Slaps it lightly, dips into his crack, like he enjoys the give of Kurt’s ass, using it to make himself even bigger. 

“You’ll, you’ll be careful with that thing, right?” Kurt chokes, talking to the desk under his arms.

“Mmmmm,” Burt confirms. “Why don’t you just relax, kid. You done this before, right?” He thumbs Kurt’s ass apart again, like he can tell from the look of Kurt’s hole.

Kurt huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve done it before.”

“Good,” Burt says, and reaches for the condom he dropped on the desk.

Slick crackling of the condom rolling on, wheeze of the lube bottle, and Kurt just keeps staring at the desk, every sound and movement from behind him adding to his naughty little fever, making his breath come short, his spread legs tremble.

A finger pokes into his ass without ceremony, blunt and busy, goes easily, well-lubed.

“You sure you done this?” Burt asks again. “Tight as hell.”

“Y-yes,” Kurt stutters, and drops to his elbows. Burt’s finger is moving around like a doctor’s, inspecting the give of his hole, in and out, reaching and pushing against his insides.

“Tight, yeah. It’s good,” Burt mutters. He slides his finger out and what can only be his cock nudges up into its place. Burt jiggles it into his hole, little sharp nudges, just the tip of it and god, Kurt lets him, is letting this stranger grunt and prod him open and Kurt is lowering for him, trying to help find the right angle, the right position to get it slipping inside.

But no, Burt is too large, and it hurts. Kurt feels speared, like not just his ass, but like his whole body is spreading to accommodate Burt’s dick. And he just keeps coming; little shoves that keep feeding his impossible cock into Kurt and fuck, Kurt can feel it in his guts, feel himself shifting for it.

“Wait, stop,” Kurt gasps, and Burt obediently stills, even if his hand squeezes Kurt’s hip bone in frustration.

“Kid, it is far too late to back out now,” he growls.

“Just, hold on,” he breathes. He loves getting fucked. Loves it like crazy. The closeness, the connection, and yeah, a cock in his ass feels _good_. But this is insane.

“Are you okay?”

“I...yes, yeah, just...”

“Then I’m going to start moving,” Burt tells him, and does just that, the dragging burn making Kurt yelp.

Out and then a _plunge_ back in, fuck, he’s never felt this filled before, this absolutely dominated. Burt presses in close, and Kurt can feel his balls, the canvas of his coveralls, the press of his gut, but over it all, that unrelenting _fullness_. 

Burt is rock hard, pumps into him with no catch or sag, like being fucked with a billy club. His breathing is fast and heavy, timed to the slick, smacking, sound of his cock moving in Kurt.

“Tight, jeez,” he growls again, punctuates it with a thrust that almost takes Kurt off his feet.

“ _Big_.” Kurt has the mind to answer with, between gasps into his forearm. 

“Yeah,” Burt huffs. “But I think you like it. Move that ass, kid.”

Kurt tries to glare back at him, almost slips off the desk. “Not in the deal,” he scoffs breathlessly. As though he could move if he wanted to. Burt has his hips locked, fucking into him selfishly.

It’s jolting when Burt suddenly stops, pulls all the way out. Kurt hears the plasticky snap of a condom.

“What happened? Did it break? Oh-!” Burt slams back into him, filling him again, splitting him with a long, triumphant groan.

For such an old guy, Burt doesn’t last much longer after that. His thrusts get faster, more frantic, and he clings harder to Kurt’s sides, his big fingers digging into Kurt’s belly, like he’s trying to feel his own huge cock in Kurt’s depths.

Kurt keeps his head down, mouth pressed to his arm. It’s overwhelming and frightening, how easily he could get used to this, the thrill of being so callously used for someone else’s pleasure. Just give into being nothing more than a fuck toy; a hole for a big, hungry cock. No embracing, no loving caresses, no kisses to the back of his neck. Just a hot, quick, dirty stabbing. It makes him shiver, makes his own erection twitch in the open air. Knowing that his pleasure means nothing to the mechanic behind him. That his stretched aching asshole is just payment owed.

Only when Burt finishes ( _grunting, driving, pressed warm to Kurt’s ass and nailing out his orgasm with little shuddery jabs_ ) and pulls out, spreading Kurt’s cheeks, does Kurt feel the dribble of come out of his hole. There is so much of it, trickling down his thigh, catching in his bunched briefs. 

“Ah, yeah, yeah, that’s it,” Burt breathes, squatting a little to spread Kurt’s ass with his palms. He flexes his hole under Burt’s gaze and even more drips out, he’s _full_ of it. 

Burt lets go and Kurt drops to his knees, legs caught in his pants, sobs as he jerks himself off, his asshole gaping and grasping at air. Burt watches, his wet cock still stiff but drooping now. He fists it a couple of times, leaves it hanging out of his coveralls like a prize.

Kurt comes while staring at it, only closes his eyes when his body makes him, jerking and shivering.

Burt says, “C’mon kid.” Practically picks Kurt up from where he’s slumped on the floor, shoulder against the desk, come all up the front of his shirt, cock still in his hand.

Burt lets him sleep in his office, under his coat on the couch there. Comes back some time in the ugly hours of the morning and fucks him again, Kurt still open and ready for him. Just hauls Kurt’s hips up, kneels behind him. Pushes down his open jeans, presses in. Takes him slower this time, long strokes and deep, pleased groans while Kurt drowses.

When he wakes up, the truck is fixed, down on the ground, keys in the ignition. 

The garage is otherwise empty, a gaudy Michelin Tire clock over the service entrance telling him it’s 7:04am. So he opens the garage door and drives it out, pops back to close the garage again, checks the locks. Drives home, takes a much-needed shower. Goes back down to the kitchen, cozy in flannel pajamas, his red satin holiday robe jauntily tied. 

There is coffee brewing already, _putt-putt-putt_ in the maker, so he starts pulling out the ingredients for pancakes. 

His Dad comes into the kitchen and rubs a hand down his back, pats his ass. 

“Merry Christmas, kiddo.”

“Merry Christmas, Dad,” Kurt grins, blushes, and ducks his head so his father’s kiss hits the side of his mouth. He laughs and tips his lips back up for a proper kiss, cheeks hot.

His Dad gives it to him, sweet, with just a little Christmas tongue.

“Did you like your first present?” he asks, looking amused at Kurt’s bashfulness.

“Um, yes. A lot. Thanks for fixing my baby.”

Burt snorts, kisses his lower lip again, and then gives his ass a harder pat with an accompanying grope.

“Least expensive present you’ve ever asked for, I like it.”


End file.
